


gone.

by yosoyritmo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Anger, F/M, I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON AND I CANNOT BE STOPPED!, I'M SO DEPRAVED, Non-Graphic Violence, Rite of Tranquility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yosoyritmo/pseuds/yosoyritmo





	gone.

Cullen can't remember the last time he looked up without feeling sick. He has a job to do - a job he knows in his heart that he is perfectly capable of doing, and one he does not wish to shirk - but with every thump in his head his vision blackens, words on the parchment in front of him splitting in two and multiplying, overlapping until all he sees is a crosshatch of words in a hand he wishes he never has to see again. He hisses, drawing in a strained breath as he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, harder and harder until discomfort overrides him and he lets his arms go limp. Every bone in his body is heavy, so heavy, his eyes are stinging and his muscles tremble with every broken breath he takes in and forces out. His skin is almost too cold to bear but his veins burn under his skin and it makes him want to scream. He shivers when he feels ten years’ worth of pent-up tears slide cold down his cheeks and he braces his elbows on the desk just to stop himself from completely crumbling to the floor. He curses himself, for letting himself get into such a state but still trying to stall his emotions and he feels even more pathetic. _The Commander of the Inquisition's forces is too proud to let himself fall when he's already as good as dead._

He barely allows himself to blink; every time he closes his eyes he sees _her_ , her image burned into the backs of his eyelids, branded on his mind like the one she bears between her brows. He sees the way that unruly dark hair is curled and tangled, lazily tucked behind her ears and left to fall back again instead of the neat ponytail it always used to be tied back into. He sees the way that pitch black eyes that once reflected the light as though they could rival every star in the night sky are left darkened, half-lidded and ringed with shadows that he knows are from working too much and sleeping too little. He looks at her and doesn't find a single hint that there might be _something_ left of the woman he was never allowed to love.

If one in such a situation as Cullen's could go to another to seek aid, it would certainly do more harm than good. He knows how the scenario goes - he would be told to focus on the pleasant memories rather than the harsh realities. He would be told that in time it would become easier. It's been ten Maker-forsaken years; it has by no means become any easier. It never will get easier because there are no times of happiness with her to remember. All he has are the stolen moments spent nervously grazing fingers against each other, pinkies hooked together as part of an unspoken promise to always _come back_. But now there was nothing left of her to return to him.

"If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I will trouble you no further." Her voice spoke to him earlier that evening, but it wasn't _her_ speaking. Not really. Maker, he didn't want her to leave, but seeing nothing but a ghost of her after so long made his gut wrench. He felt sick to his stomach, it made his head pound and the mere thought of having to live next to her when she was barely even existing was so fucking visceral it left indents in parts of his skin he hadn't realised he had been clutching at. It was all too much and he was never going to have enough. There was nothing he could do to bring her back, nothing he could do to have her instead of the demons that still hang on his shoulder, even with the one they imitated gone. Perhaps more so now.

His forehead hits the desk and he balks; the impact sends seismic waves through his head and down his spine but he doesn't care. His breath catches in his throat and the air trapped in his lungs feels like rope coiling around his ribs, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter and he can't stop it. He chokes, one hand snapping up to cover his mouth while the other grips at the note on his desk, crumpling the parchment and smudging the ink. As if he could actually reply to her message. She'd understand none of it.

His fist comes down to smack at the table, hard enough to leave contusions and topple the empty bottle of whisky and glass he hadn't bothered to use off of the edge of the desk. He exhales, slowly, still shaky and painful and dry in his mouth and raises his head though he doesn't dare look up. He sees Amell's words clearer than before, but he still doesn't read them. No use looking for her on a piece of paper. He'll never meet her like again.


End file.
